


Victory is only Two Letters from Trouble

by helico_pter



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Insomnia, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Otabek Altin is a Mess, Slice of Life, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat, toe sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helico_pter/pseuds/helico_pter
Summary: Yuri is kind of a bully, and Otabek is kind of a mess. But over the course of a year, from one GP Final to another, there is friendship and more.





	1. Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> I remembered Yuri's birthday being March 31st instead of March 1st.
> 
> This was fun to write, but I don't know if it's fun to read.
> 
> Additional note: I've realised Otabek's birthday is also wrong.

Stretching gives Yuri time to check his social media and consider his next move in _Words With Friends_. He’s already used two passes in this game and a third one would mean losing so instead he uses his turn to get new letters instead.

When he’s done with his phone—Lilia dislikes it anyway—and he has nothing else to do, he checks for split ends in his hair. Afterwards he puts on his oversized hoodie to keep warm and checks that the tapes supporting his knee and calf are secure. He has the time to make one more word before it's time for ballet practice.

"Good. First position," Lilia’s voice rings out as the corps settle by the barres. "And we start pointing front, open second, return front, and second. Flex the foot. Stretch the foot. And two in first, good, and second, flex, point, first and first. Two times, please. Ready?"

It's a meditation that proceeds from the feet up, accompanied by increasingly lively music from the pianist. From the simple to the complicated, and from the easy to the straining. Towards the end of the hour they've proceeded through the barre practice and into the centre floor, pirouetting and jumping. By that time Yuri's soaked in sweat and what's left of his clothes is a sleeveless top and leggings just past his knees.

When it’s over, he dries off his hands before picking up his phone again. Otabek's won again.

"Fuck," he messages Otabek.

He doesn't have the time to check until he's tying on his skates a few hours later. When he does, Otabek has replied.

"We could play the Russian version," his DM says.

"There's a Russian version? Shit, let's do that."

The English version's not entirely fair. Yuri can understand and speak English just fine, but he's not so interested in spelling so Otabek's been wiping the floor with him. He downloads the Russian language pack before he's called on ice.

If he's lucky there's an hour or two in the evening when he can have an actual conversation with Otabek. After taking into account their schedules and the St. Petersburg–Almaty time difference. More often than not they're too tired so they just keep playing _Words_. Maybe this time Yuri has a shot at actually winning a game.

#

"Cats. I like cats."

"I suspected."

Yuri scans through his chat history with Otabek and counts 13 cat-related pictures in the last week. It's just past mid-January and he's visited Moscow so he has a _lot_ of new cat pictures.

"Yeah, well, fuck you too," he writes in response. "Invite me."

He likes it when Otabek invites him to _Words_. It means something in a very new friendship.

#

"What do you think?" Yuri pulls his shirt taut, the gold-foil tiger springing to life in the light of his bedroom. It’s new and he’s not had the opportunity to show it off to anyone else yet.

Otabek tilts his head, it’s darker on his side of the screen. "Are you wearing pants?" he asks.

Yuri looks down at his bare thighs and bunches the fuchsia shirt up this time, pointing out his ballet shorts. They’re small, sure, but they’re there. And _comfortable_. "Are you?" he huffs.

"No," Otabek replies and for a moment he’s a blur of tan skin and darkness, until the picture settles on his hip and he twangs the waistband of his trunks. He’s bruised there. "I’m in bed. It’s 1am."

"So responsible." Yuri rolls his eyes. "What do you think of the shirt?" he asks again.

"I guess you like pink," Otabek says this time.

"You know what," Yuri says, a little bit loudly. So what if he likes pink? "Shove a sideways skate up your ass."

Otabek yawns at him instead, not even bothering to cover his gaping mouth with a hand or anything. "See you at Worlds," he says instead of a goodbye. It fills Yuri’s mouth and stomach with a buzzing heat.

#

"Threesome?"

Otabek looks up from his phone.

"The word you just used!" Yuri reaches over and slaps Otabek's phone out of his hands. He hadn't meant to, but it's Otabek's fault for not holding onto it properly.

The phone's fall is only a few centimetres to the floor, but Otabek doesn't pick it up immediately. His face goes lax with relief. "What about it?" He crosses his arms and leans his chin on them.

"Nothing! But, well, would you? Have a threesome?" Yuri mirrors Otabek's position, shifting his hips and legs to distribute the weight. A straddle split isn't too strenuous for him, but he can see Otabek is tense trying the same. Or maybe because of the question.

Otabek looks past Yuri and moves his mouth in thought. "Are you allowed to ask me that?" he finally says.

"You're the one who brought it up," Yuri insists entirely untruthfully and reaches over to prod at Otabek's phone again. Their _Words With Friends_ has been going on non-stop since Barcelona. "Besides, I'll be 16 in ten minutes."

Otabek grunts when he sits up and stiffly brings his legs in. "With the right two people, I guess." He shrugs and rubs the backs of his thighs.

They're in Boston for Worlds. Yuri's used to having his birthday overshadowed by the competition, and in some ways even prefers it. Everything's different this time. He's actually having fun. He's had to have fun before, too, right? He enjoys skating so it must've always been fun. He sits up, but only to switch to a front split, leaning over his forward foot.

"Who’re the right two people?" Yuri asks from around his knee, head turned sideways so he can see Otabek who refuses to even attempt a proper front split, much less an overstretched one.

"Dunno. Haven’t met them yet," Otabek says, watching. "What about you?"

Yuri has to toss his head to get his hair out of the way so he can look back at Otabek. "Are you allowed to ask _me_ that?" he echoes Otabek's words in a mocking tone, but with a grin. "I can’t volunteer for your threesome."

"Okay. Well, it’s not what I was asking, but eight minutes," Otabek says and ducks his head to pick up his phone.

It's almost midnight on the eve of Yuri's 16th birthday and Otabek's waiting up with him. There's going to be a fuss the following day, probably a small party. Katsuki had told him as much. He'd scoffed because why the fuck would he ever let Katsuki know he’s kind of excited for a party.

It's eight minutes of _Words_ , punctuated by a few strained noises from Otabek as he does his best to copy Yuri's stretching routine, which is so stupid of him. Yuri's alarm dings at midnight and he looks up at Otabek.

"Happy birthday," Otabek says obediently and holds his hand across the space between their pigeon poses like an idiot. "You made it."

"Thanks," Yuri says as they shake hands. Otabek's palm is damp from exertion.

"Would you have a threesome?" Otabek asks, still holding his hand.

And honestly Yuri has no idea. He hasn't even had a twosome so how could he know? "Fuck, why not," he says anyway and snorts to hide his laughter. It's his best birthday so far. Just because.

#

"This is some bullshit right here."

Yuri flips his camera to show Katsuki and Viktor on ice. They’re trailing each other, trading touches, all under the guise of _practise_ and _coaching_.

"Totally," Otabek agrees. "You're filming vertically again. Such bullshit."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Yuri says but turns his phone anyway. "Better, you picky fuck?"

It's early spring and they've known each other a grand total of four months. It's long enough to be comfortable, surprisingly.

"Much, thanks." Otabek watches the dancing pair, but Yuri watches Otabek's face instead in the corner of his phone screen. He’s foggy and dim like he’s at the bottom of a bottle. "Which one would you?"

Yuri lowers his phone and slouches in his seat, stretching his legs forward. He flips the camera again, but this time watches the ice show himself. "Dunno." He makes a face. "Katsuki." Because whatever Katsuki’s flaws are, he’s not guilty of the biggest one, which is being _Viktor_.

"Both," Otabek follows up, off-handedly. "I'd do both."

"Ew," Yuri opines. "At the same time?"

"No. But both."

"Can I change my answer? I'd do neither. Bleh." Yuri looks up again to see two perfect triple loops going off. Katsuki skates softly, like he’s made of cotton wool. It’s kind of nice. "Nah, I'd still do Katsuki. Final answer."

"I think everyone would," Otabek agrees. "Good luck."

#

"The Axel." Of course the Axel. The hardest, the most outstanding, the one that’s _different_. "What a stupid question," Yuri continues.

"I like the flip," Otabek deflects and Yuri snorts, because _of course_. Both their voices are distorted, but in slightly different ways because the bathrooms are different.

Yuri sits in the tub—perks of living with someone who has an actual income—but he's not bathing. Potya is with him, curled between his knees and he uses a loofah to play with her. He's propped his phone up on the edge and occasionally watches Otabek on the screen.

Otabek, who's sitting on the toilet seat of his respective bathroom three hours in the future, is soaking his feet in a flat bowl. "Would you wear high heels?" he asks, picking up his phone again to leave the warm water to soothe his feet.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Yuri barks, snatching up his phone too, so he can glare at Otabek through the distance. " _High heels_? Fuck! Don't you think we torture our feet enough?"

It’s always late between them. Always dark outside and dark in whatever room Otabek’s in. But Yuri’s found out sharing comes sort of easy with Otabek. So he doesn’t mind sharing freely of his opinions and words.

"Female skaters do it," Otabek replies, leaning back and looking uncomfortable. He'd showed the worn-down mess of his feet to Yuri before sinking them into the water with a held-back hiss. It’s nothing new, but he must’ve been working extra hard to get to that point.

Yuri has to detangle Potya's claws from the loofah. "That's their problem," he scoffs. He’s got tape around some of his toes, bracing them together, and bruises for days. It’s just what it is.

"My boots have a heel," Otabek says, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. It's nearly 1am again, three hours in the future. Yuri doesn't feel sorry for keeping him up. Otabek had called _him_ , anyway. He seemed to run on a permanent sleep deficit.

"That doesn't make them _high-heeled_." Yuri tosses the loofah at the other end of the tub and Potya slips and slides after it, fluffy tail twisting. "And you're an idiot, Beka."

Otabek smiles at him through the distance. At least Yuri thinks he does. The lighting is abominable, coming from above, and leaves Otabek's eyes just as dark divots in his face and his nose exaggerated by it's shadow. The half-expressions are becoming familiar to Yuri, and welcome. But there’s also a frustration growing under his ribs because sometimes Otabek’s just so _hopeless_.

"I’ve seen Giacometti wear heels a few times," Otabek adds, as if he’s just recalled.

"For what? A sex party?" Because Yuri’s mind goes there a lot.

"No, just a gala event or something. He wore them with a suit."

Yuri scrunches up his nose and tries to imagine it, while Potya attempts to gut the loofah, only getting tangled up in it again. "Well," he says after a wordless while. "But he’s so tall."

"I don’t think he does it for the extra height."

Yuri slides deeper into the tub, splaying his legs on either edge of it, holding his phone on his chest. "He wore glitter gold eyeshadow last I saw him," he says, the focuses on Otabek. "Would you?"

"Well," Otabek echoes. There’s a splashing sound from his end, like he’s kicking his feet in the water. He’s almost lost to the shadows. "Everything but the glitter. That’s too much."

Yuri sinks into the bottom of the tub, just his legs sticking up and Potya playing with the drain. Otabek gives up on all conversation as he fixes his feet as best he can and Yuri thinks of him with gold eyeshadow and high heels on, not sure if he should laugh or something else at the thought.

#

They play _Words_ while on Skype with each other several times a week, as often as possible. Yuri lies on his back on his bed, laptop open next to him while he scowls at his phone. His win-loss ratio is still heavily on the loss side. Not because he doesn't know words, but just because Otabek's better. At least he can beat Otabek on the ice. At Worlds he did.

"You ever tried to blow yourself?" Otabek asks and Yuri turns his head towards the camera to find Otabek staring with pixelated eyes. "You're bendy."

"I have a spine," Yuri snorts. "Look." He picks his lower body off the bed and tilts it over himself. "See? Nope." He can roll himself up pretty small, get his knees on the bed on either side of his head, but there's just no way.

"Huh," Otabek says, and looks at his phone.

Yuri's phone dings and when he unrolls himself to check he's lost another game. "Well, fuck you, too," he says and drops his phone on the bed, scowling towards Otabek. Without the game to occupy him he has to sit up and start checking his toes. Aftercare's important when he's on his feet so much, but it's not always fun to do, especially when it’s constant.

Otabek's doing something similar on the other side of internet, trimming his toenails. Through the laptop camera and the bad lighting his feet look black and blue throughout. He's put cotton pads between his toes. Yuri watches, much more interested in that than doing the same to his own feet.

"JJ or Chris?" he asks because they’d talked about Christophe before. "Which one would you?"

Otabek doesn't even look up, but Yuri sees him make a little face. "Neither," he says. "You?"

"...JJ," Yuri admits. It’s disgusting.

"Really?" Otabek leans his chin on his propped up knee and raises his eyebrows towards Yuri.

"I know." Yuri mimes sticking a finger down his throat to throw up, then sighs. "But yeah. But just the _shape_ of him," he hurries to add. "Not, like, his _personality_."

Otabek goes back to his toenails. "I can see it," he says. "You go crazy at each other every time. Lots of tension." He snips his nail cutters and then swears softly under his breath and Yuri can see the black of desaturated blood spilling from his nail bed.

"Are you an idiot?" Yuri asks as he watches the scene, starting to suspect this might be the case with Otabek. "Or just useless?"

Otabek gauzes his toe and gives Yuri a mildly guilty look. "Probably both."

It makes a shiver go up and down Yuri's spine, not entirely pleasant. "You tried blowing yourself, didn't you?" he changes the subject, having come to a conclusion about why Otabek asked and this new admission.

This time it's Otabek's turn to look uncomfortable. "I did," he admits anyway. "When I was 13. Didn't work. Didn't try again." Even if he’s probably more flexible now, but he’s also bigger. Really thick thighs, Yuri has noted. Otabek's done with his nails so he relaxes into a cross-legged sit. He's on the floor, probably by his bed or sofa, Yuri can't quite tell from the grainy picture.

"Get a better camera," Yuri says, annoyed. "This one's shit when you don't put on any lights. Which is fucking always."

"It's the laptop camera, I can't change that." Otabek shrugs. He's only lit by the glow of his monitor.

"Then get a better laptop!"

"Go to sleep," Otabek says. "It's past midnight here so-"

"Yeah, yeah. It's only just 9pm! Suck my dick." Yuri ends the call on that and the feed of Otabek freezes for a second on his blurry face before disappearing. After a while Yuri's phone dings anyway when Otabek invites him to a new game of _Words_.

#

"What the fuck are you drinking?" Yuri asks, seeing the can in Otabek's hand. This time Otabek's laptop is on a table or maybe the kitchen counter. There's no lights again, but there's a glow in his windows meaning street lamps.

"Monster." Otabek shows the can with it's telltale green stripes.

It's half past 6pm for Yuri so it's coming around to 9pm around for Otabek. Yuri's running his fingers through his hair after a shower. "Why the fuck?"

"I need it. Been up since 5am. Doing a gig in a bit. Seeing some friends," Otabek replies and gulps down the rest of his drink. Then he jiggles on the spot, stretching his neck, almost like warming up.

"Meh," Yuri complains, wishing he could go. He’s a friend. He's not heard Otabek DJ since Barcelona, by now half a year ago. He watches Otabek move around his kitchen, rolling his shoulders, looking wound up. "Condoms or bareback?" he asks then because he wants to know. Not that it’s really _relevant_ , either to the conversation or their situation. But he _wants to know_. And maybe it is relevant to Otabek’s plans.

Otabek comes over to the laptop, leaning his arms on the counter where it's on. "Condoms," he says instantly, then hedges. "Well, it depends."

"It depends?" No one in Yuri's life has really given him advice on sex. Not that it's really needed in the age of PornHub.

"Yes?" Otabek says, but more confused than serious. "Why? Are you-"

"No," Yuri interrupts him sullenly. "You know I'm not." Because despite them talking about it all the time, he's not gone past making out or trading handjobs.

"Then why are you asking?"

"'Cause I'm bored," Yuri says, and yanks on his hair. It was a stupid question, anyway.

"Just be safe," Otabek says.

Otabek's so earnest—and a little bit twitchy—so Yuri gives him the finger. Otabek raises his eyebrows and responds in kind, which makes Yuri fight back a laugh and lift his other middle finger, too.

"I gotta go," Otabek says and drops his finger. "See you later."

"Just be safe," Yuri mocks and sticks out his tongue before Otabek ends the call. Super mature, as always.

#

"Look, rice goes with almost anything," Yuri is explaining into the camera of his laptop. "Sweet and savoury. Do you even know how to make rice?"

"I sometimes get it in those pre-packaged, ready-to-eat things," Otabek says somewhere from the murky depths of his kitchen.

Yuri grunts and leans closer to his fridge. The door is open and the only light is from within it. It's sweltering and his only fan is already broken and so what if this drives up the electric bill. It's not like he's paying it.

"Of course," Yuri mutters and Otabek leans closer to his camera so Yuri can actually see him, as pixelated as he is. "Then at least drink something," he commands.

"Ah, ow, I should," Otabek agrees and disappears again, but when he comes back he's not holding anything drinkable. Yuri watches him sit on the floor in front of the laptop and spray his calves with something, then rub it in. Yuri can see the muscles twitching, on the edge of developing into full-blown cramps.

"Shit," Yuri says.

"It's the heat," Otabek says and Yuri hears a whistle in his ears, like an oncoming train.

"It's because you're an idiot!" he hisses, not screaming like he wants to because people are sleeping. "Get water! Get a banana! What the fuck are you doing calling me for _recipes_ when you're like this! Fuck you!"

"Because you're so _reassuring_ ," Otabek taunts and his face comes into view again. "Why don't you just climb in the fridge and close the door?"

"Why don't you just climb into a coffin and close the lid?" Yuri huffs and nudges the fridge shut. Without its light he's in as much of darkness as Otabek. Just lit by talking to each other.

"Have considered it," Otabek admits until his face twists up in pain again from cramping feet. He sprays them again, as if the extra magnesium is going to help when he's probably having way too much and too sudden sugar in his diet.

"I'll come to the funeral," Yuri promises, then looks right at the camera. "Get your fucking shit together, Beka, you dehydrated moron. Now get water and drink it so I can see."

"Die in a fire," Otabek says, but he does what Yuri's telling him to do, drinking down a bottle of water right in the camera.

"Die in a car crash," Yuri says afterwards and ends the call.

#

"Call me as soon as you've listened to my message," the voicemail says. It's so rare—never happened -rare—and Otabek sounds so frayed that Yuri steels himself against the worst, heart cracking painfully against his ribcage.

"Cotton pads," Otabek's voice says then. "Hand sanitiser, ibuprofen, magnesium spray, melatonin..."

Yuri doesn't finish listening. He calls Otabek immediately. "You fuck!" he screams. "You made me listen to your shopping list!"

"Thanks," Otabek says instead as if Yuri's done him some favour. There's noise behind him, traffic, wind. "Now I remember what I need to buy."

Yuri screams again, just wordlessly. He's at home, done for the day. "You banal fuck!" he sprays the words from his mouth into the receiver of his phone, but they're only received by a crackly snort of laughter.

"Banal," Otabek repeats.

"Fuck you!" Yuri snaps. So he'd learned that word from their game. So fucking what? "And if you dare to buy more Monster I'll come over there and strangle you with your own laces," he adds in a hiss before hanging up.

#

"Summer child," Yuri says in August. It’s late, both because it’s night already and because he’s saying it two days after the fact. Because Otabek is like that and has only told him now. "Were you afraid I’d come over and _shake your hand_?"

"A little," Otabek admits. He has bruises for eyes and his edges are bleeding into the dark. It’s almost visible. "You can come for the next one."

"That’s literally a year away, you unsalted omelette." Yuri’s resting his feet up against the wall, on his back on the bed and his laptop tilted at an awkward angle for the camera to catch any of his face.

"That’s the nature of birthdays," Otabek says.

"I’m uninviting you from my 17th," Yuri growls. It’s disappointment. It’s stupid. Otabek’s stupid. "I didn’t even _know_."

Otabek’s on his side on a sofa or a bed or something, holding his phone too close to his face so basically all Yuri sees are his nose and mouth. The mouth moves as if Otabek’s worrying the inside of his cheek. "I almost didn’t remember myself," he says. "But some friends did. And we went out. Stayed up too late."

He’s stilted and blurry and Yuri squints at his screen as if that could bring Otabek to focus. "You haven’t slept for at least two days," he mutters, realising it’s what Otabek’s saying, somewhere under the layers of his bullshit. "You fucking idiot."

"Am I really uninvited?" Otabek asks, shifting his phone so now Yuri can see a single eye.

"I’ll let you know," Yuri sniffs.

#

The Lombardia Trophy starts the next season for both of them and Otabek kicks down Yuri's door as soon as he's got into the hotel. "How's the back?" he asks.

"Fine, _thanks_ ," Yuri snaps. He'd told Otabek about trying to suck himself off which had only made him sprain his back. However small the injury, it's still something to take into account every time he trains or skates.

Otabek has another can of Monster in hand. "You shouldn't have tried it."

"No shit," Yuri grouses. "Why're you drinking that shit again?"

"Haven't slept." Otabek paces the length of the room, taking sips of his drink. "Gotta stay awake."

"God, you're an idiot," Yuri says, realisation dawning as he watches Otabek slink about, looking like his skin's too small for him. He's got stubble and his eyes are black and dart about without purpose. "How about a nap?"

"Then I won't sleep at night."

"How about a kick in the balls?"

"No, thanks." Otabek keeps drinking. "You sure you're ok to skate?"

"I'm _fine_." Yuri springs forward and slaps the can out of Otabek's hand. It lands and bounces and spills its contents all over the carpeted floor of Yuri's room. "Get a grip, Beka!"

Otabek doesn't even more, hand still held out as though his drink isn't gone. He blinks, then drops his hand. "Beka," he repeats slowly. God, he is hot but dumb as fuck. "It sounds so different when you say it. Like I’m guilty of something."

"Go the fuck to sleep." Yuri points at his bed. When Otabek doesn't move Yuri grabs his arm and pulls him to the bed. He shoves Otabek, but he doesn't go down, so Yuri bends his knees and lifts Otabek off the floor and drops him onto the bed. "Beka, you absolute fuckwaffle."

Otabek mumbles something into the pillow, having landed face down on it. His body twitches and Yuri pulls off his shoes, then climbs on top of him to remove his jacket. Otabek kicks out and struggles, but Yuri plants his whole weight on him, as negligible as that is—but he's grown—and presses Otabek's head down with both hands. If it suffocates him, Otabek’s brought it on himself.

"Stay," he growls and Otabek flails a little, but Yuri doesn't let up. This is friendship, goddamn it. Taking care of each other. His back twinges, but that's Otabek's fault twice over now.

After some aftershocks of Otabek struggling and twitching and kicking out he settles and makes no more noise. Yuri sits on him a while longer just to make sure and only rolls off when Otabek's breath is long and deep and regular. Yuri does try to be nice and adjust Otabek's position so that he at least looks comfortable, but it doesn't seem to matter. He's completely out and Yuri wonders just how long he'd been awake previously, angry like a glowstick cracked open.

#

It's a good competition. The Challenger series is as new to the senior division as Yuri himself, so it's only right he takes part in it even if it's not as high-profile as the GP or the World series. It’s a good place for debuting new programs. There's fewer top skaters, too, and many that Yuri's not really paid attention to before.

They get to skate together a few days. Otabek nearly recovers from his sleep deprivation and Yuri doesn't catch him drinking more energy drinks. After practise they just go in circles around the rink to come down a bit.

"Toes or fingers?" Yuri asks as they do.

"In this business? Toes," Otabek says.

"Same," Yuri replies immediately. "Definitely toes."

"Foot rubs," Otabek nods.

"Oh, God yes," Yuri agrees. He turns to skate backwards to see Otabek's face for the next question. "Blowjobs or handjobs?"

"Both," Otabek replies with a snort. He's got his hands in the pockets of his trakkies and there's stains of sweat around the collar and armpits of his grey sweater.

"Mm," Yuri nods. "Same," he says again, although slightly subdued. Not a lot of blowjobs in his life so far. Especially not from himself. Should’ve tried it when he was younger and even shorter.

Otabek swipes his hair back from his forehead and it sticks that way because it's damp with sweat, too. He's still got the stubble but is slightly less dark around his eyes. "Blonds or brunettes?"

Yuri goes into a lazy spin. "Both," he says when he comes back to face Otabek, although this time he's going forward and Otabek backwards.

"Blonds," Otabek says. He hardly has to move to keep going and Yuri watches his hips as they move from side to side.

"Always?"

"Well, not always, but a lot of the time."

This time it's Yuri who swipes his own hair back. It's in a bun, but the bun always comes loose while he practises because he can't be bothered to do it properly the way Lilia's taught him. He glances around, but realises he's the only blond one in the men's singles at this competition. Before he gets to ask again they get called off the ice.

It's not the first time they shower together afterwards. It's not intimate because it's almost everyone there, in the shared showers of the locker room. Yuri notices Otabek only carries one little bottle with him, while Yuri cradles three different ones. Otabek notices the same.

"You need all three?" he asks as they start the showers, next to a few others.

"Pleb," Yuri replies. "Soap, shampoo and conditioner." It’s the fucking _minimum_. _"_ What've you got? Dish washing liquid?"

"It's just all in one," Otabek defends his poor choice. "Saves space."

"All in one," Yuri scoffs and smacks the bottle away. It skids across the floor and ends up in the feet of a competitor Yuri recalls is called Tor. When Tor picks up the bottle and looks around, Yuri goes over, grabs the bottle again and throws it out the door and into the locker room. "Get the fuck away from here with that weak shit," he says loudly. "Use mine," he offers when he gets back under the spray. He can be magnanimous as _shit_.

They both wash with Yuri's products and afterwards Otabek watches as Yuri dries his hair vigorously. They've lingered, both in the shower, sniping at each other, as well as drying and getting dressed so the locker room is almost empty and stale with the lack of air conditioning.

"Braids or buns?" Otabek mumbles.

"Kind of a stupid question," Yuri says, stuffing things into his bag. "You don't have long hair."

"I can still have a preference."

Yuri reaches over with his foot to tip Otabek's bag off the bench, but this time Otabek parries him with his own leg. "Fine. Braids," Yuri says. He knows, or suspects, that it's about his hair, which makes him cross.

"I think so, too," Otabek agrees and pushes Yuri's foot away again. He'd never recovered his all-in-one shampoo or whatever the fuck it was and Yuri's glad. Nobody needs that kind of negativity in their life.

#

It's an easy to sustain relationship. Minimum effort, maximum return. Maybe medium effort when Yuri tries really hard to win a game of Words. At least he does do sometimes now, when it's in Russian. Between games are lazy, irritable DMs and snapchats. Otabek's continuously badly lit ones versus Yuri's pieces of fucking art. Literally every good picture on Otabek's social media is taken by someone else than himself. Not much of an equivalent exchange.

At his home rink in St. Petersburg Yuri gets to see far too much of Viktor and Katsuki. He's resting with his feet up, guards on his skates, and making a video for Otabek because he’s had a _revelation_.

"Hey, watch this," he mutters into the phone and remembers to switch to horizontal filming to keep Otabek from bitching about that. "I figured out a new way to annoy them."

He gets up and leans over the rink boards, waiting until Katsuki's done with his free skate practice—never stop in the middle of a program—and calls out. "Hey, Yuuri. Looking good! Nice ass!"

Both Viktor and Katsuki turn to look in his direction and even at distance it's obvious Katsuki blushes. "Thanks?" he calls back in a small voice, side-eyeing Viktor.

"Yeah, super juicy! You know, like an apple. Can't wait to get a bite!" Yuri yells back, trying not to laugh. The phone is already shaking in his hands. "I bet it’s soft like a peach! No wonder Viktor-"

"Enough!" Viktor's the one responding this time. "Stop distracting Yuuri!"

"I'm just complimenting him!" Yuri cackles, which ruins the whole thing. He withdraws back to his seat. "See?" he says to future Otabek, amused. "They know I'm not for real, but it works anyway." He films a little longer, to show Katsuki completely flubbing his next take and almost falling over on his 3S.

#

"Yura."

Yuri doesn't look up from his hair. He's not found a split end yet. He hasn't really been looking towards the Skype window anyway, just his phone where the game is. It's late again, which is normal. It's the only time for them to actually talk.

"Yurka."

Yuri snorts, but doesn't stop.

"Yurochka."

Yuri aims a middle finger in the direction of his laptop, which is on the floor with him.

"Yurio."

Okay, it'd been a mistake to share that with Otabek. "What?"

"I'm tired."

"Go to sleep, you fucking child."

"I can't." Otabek's voice is muffled and Yuri pushes his hair behind his hears to see the screen. Otabek is lying on his stomach in front of his laptop, head turned to the side and now covered with his arm. "It's really hard."

Yuri collects his limbs from the forward leaning hamstring stretch he'd been doing and peers in closer at Otabek. There's hardly any light to see by and he can just make out a tuft of hair and a bare arm and shoulders. "'Course it is," he mutters. Otabek has the worst sleep habits.

"I don't remember when I last slept through a night," Otabek says. "Sometimes I get a few hours during the day."

"You haven't been drinking that shit, have you?" Yuri asks. Everyone does it sometimes, but he's been seeing the cans in the background of Otabek's miserable snaps.

"No," Otabek says. "Not coffee, either." He sighs and shifts, lifting his head and aiming his bleary, bruised eyes at Yuri. "Doctor gave me muscle relaxants."

"Stupid."

"Yeah." Otabek closes his eyes. "Skating's shit if I take them. But there's fewer cramps. But they don’t help me sleep. I just can’t move, but I still don’t sleep."

Yuri reaches for his bottle of water and takes a swig, then resorts to flipping the bottle on the floor, over and over again. It's almost 1am in St. Petersburg and he hasn't seen Otabek quite this miserable at before. He realises they haven't video chatted for a while, not live anyway. The last communication from Otabek before this—and his winning word of the day, _nebulous_ —had been a blurry video of some pigeons.

"God, Beka, you sad sack of shit," Yuri mutters. "Pull yourself together."

"Shut up. Too tired." Otabek says with bleary intonation. "Just distract me."

"Like how?" Yuri mutters. He's pissed off. Anger's a good tool, it's carried him through lots. "You're doing Skate Canada in less than a month."

"Definitely not like that." Otabek rolls around again, onto his back, and puts both his arms over his face.

Yuri's water bottle falls on its side and rolls away from him. He scoops up his laptop and gets on his bed. He needs to sleep, too, but Otabek just makes him so frustrated. "Which hand do you use when you get yourself off?" he asks. It's a weirdly safe and common topic of conversation between them.

Otabek huffs a little. "Left," he says. "You?"

"Right," Yuri replies, chewing on his hair. His hair's long enough for him to do that again. His gut's twisted up and aching now. Stupid Otabek.

"Yura." Otabek twists around when Yuri says nothing. "You're gross," he says, peering into the camera. "Stop eating your hair. You'll get a bezoar."

Yuri spits out his hair. He remembers the word. Otabek had used it in the game at least once. "A what?"

"A hair ball in your stomach," Otabek clarifies. He closes his eyes, but props his head up with a hand. "D'you use lube?" he mumbles.

"Spit," Yuri replies. He's Otabek so many weird details of himself by now that sharing new ones is almost ritual.

"I like lube," Otabek admits, eyes fluttering but not opening again. "Kinda cold first, then slippery like a mouth..."

"Take your word for it." Since Otabek's eyes are closed, Yuri pulls a strand of hair into his mouth, not chewing on it this time, but just rolling it around between his lips. Maybe it's a childish habit, so what? So's trying to make it around sleep deprivation with energy drinks like some Kazakh shithead. "Ever think about taking it up the ass?"

Otabek jerks a bit, but it only almost unseats his chin off his palm. "Yeh," he manages. "Who doesn't."

"Probably straight dudes." Yuri doesn't admit he thinks about it, too, and hopes Otabek doesn't realise to ask after it in his state of disorient.

Otabek's head nods forward, but he pulls up before he faceplants on the keyboard. "Dunno. Thinking about it doesn't make you gay."

"Which one do you think's the top, Viktor or Katsuki?" It's a little bit safer to divert the conversation. Not that really any subject's been taboo between them, but Yuri's mind is oddly caught on the memory of shampoo suds in the hollow of Otabek's throat at the Lombardia Trophy. He uses the strand of hair to tickle that spot under his own chin, while Otabek either thinks or is falling asleep.

"...Vit- Viktor," Otabek stumbles over the name.

"Really?" Yuri huffs. "Okay, I guess I see your point. Katsuki's probably more of a power bottom." He’s got the stamina for it.

"Mhm," Otabek manages from somewhere between the sheet and his arm.

Yuri watches Otabek, peering close at the murky picture, but pulls back when Otabek twitches again. "What's your favourite colour?" he asks quickly. _Banal_ , but whatever.

"Blck." It's just barely an answer.

"Unimaginative," Yuri replies and pauses again. This time it takes longer for Otabek to move and sigh. "Cats or dogs?" Yuri blurts, coming to an end of his own imagination, but there’s no one to point it out.

This time the word, whatever it is, is completely obscured and afterwards Otabek no longer moves, just breathes in the glow of the laptop. Yuri settles down as well, turning down the brightness of his monitor to almost nothing. He doesn't end the call, but watches Otabek until he, too, falls asleep.


	2. Victory (and more Trouble)

Because Katsuki is taking part in the NHK Trophy it of course means Viktor is there, too. And it means Yuri’s on the same plane with them for _hours_. It's a long flight from St. Petersburg and they arrive late in the evening local time. The only reward at the end of the long, dark tunnel is Otabek's presence. Yuri lets him know as soon as they land and Otabek lets Yuri know he's waiting.

And he is, right outside the hotel, with sunglasses at night, fucking idiot, and then a cigarette between his lips that glows when he inhales it. Yuri's brain goes pop and a guttural scream emanates from him as he hurtles forward to remove the cigarette from existence. What he intends is to slap the object out of Otabek's grasp, but instead ends up punching Otabek in the mouth. At least it sends the cigarette flying, too.

"Holy fucking shit! You interminable fuckwit!" Yuri gets right up in Otabek's face, rage fizzing like a shaken can of Monster. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!" It's not even a question.

It's just as well that Otabek doesn't even try to answer because Yuri's in no mood to hear it. He grabs Otabek by the front of his leather jacket and just screams at him.

In retrospect Yuri should've taken into account they were in public and that there were instant postings on social media about him punching a fellow competitor and then screaming at him while people watched. But he doesn't even remember other things existing than his inferno of anger. Viktor separates them and escorts Yuri by the scruff of his neck into his room in the hotel. And then Yuri's phone keeps dinging notifications non-stop as he paces the room.

He's calmed down some when Otabek knocks, enough to recognise the knock and go open the door. The sunglasses are gone and Otabek's face is drawn and pale. His eyes look sunken too deep. His mouth has a bruise. Yuri has the urge to punch him again, this time on purpose.

"Interminable," Otabek says. He's not even offended by Yuri's actions, so why the fuck are others?

Yuri's phone dings again.

"Learned it from you," Yuri growls. Thanks _Words With Friends_. Okay. He's calm enough to talk. He takes a look at Otabek's glassy eyes and goes to punch him again, reacting from some furious twist of his intestines that absolutely can't stand seeing Otabek like that.

The strike lands on Otabek's shoulder and makes him rock on his feet, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. "Can I sleep here?" he asks instead. "I really need to sleep. Please, Yura."

"You fucking _blin_ ," Yuri snarls. "Get on the bed. Close your fucking eyes and fucking _sleep_!" His words end with a screech that rocks Otabek almost as much as the punch had.

Otabek kicks off his shoes and drops his jacket, even pulls off his shirt and jeans and gets right into bed—with his socks on, the fucking disgrace. "Talk to me," he says, eyes still open and aimed at Yuri, waiting, wanting.

Yuri paces the room again, ignoring every time his phone vibrates or buzzes or makes any noise at the foot of the bed. "I can't talk to an idiot," Yuri mutters. "I fucking hate you."

"You're wearing a braid."

Yuri stops in his tracks and immediately takes the braid apart, painfully fast. "Get fucked." Convenience is the reason for his hair-braiding, not Otabek.

"Would do," Otabek replies. "Would do the fucking, too. Whatever. I'm flexible." He rolls around under the covers and snorts. "You know, figuratively speaking."

Yuri lays a baleful glare towards the lump, seeing only an arm poking out. "I didn't ask," he says. He rubs his scalp where it still stings and climbs on the bed, too. It's kind of nice to see Otabek again, or parts of him, without having to squint at the screen of a phone or a laptop. He reaches over to scuff the back of Otabek’s head, rage somewhat subdued.

"Okay," Otabek says, sounding way too smug for someone who got punched in the mouth. "Well, I'm asking you now."

"Shit. Both. Neither. I don't know." Yuri looks up when his phone comes alive with more notifications, and is then shoved aside when Otabek leans up and grabs Yuri's phone. He winds his arm back to throw it across the room, but Yuri tackles him onto the bed and twists the phone out of his grasp.

"Mute it," Otabek demands, muffled.

Yuri lands on him again with the sharp point of his elbow, gratified by the gasp of air leaving Otabek's lungs, but mutes the phone. "Stay the fuck down and shut the fuck up."

If Yuri doesn't think about it too much, Otabek's responding hum sounds almost satisfied.

#

"Coffee or tea?"

Yuri looks up at the waitress dressed in a maid outfit. Yeah, it's Japan all right. "Tea," he says.

"Coffee~," Otabek moans from under his arms, his face against the top of the table, but Yuri smacks him in the back of his head.

" _Tea_ ," he says again and glares at the waitress. "Two teas. Black." He even does the ordering in Japanese. Thanks, Katsuki. Then he prods Otabek with a finger. "Guess that answers that."

Otabek hauls his head up, looking like it weighs more than a head's supposed to, and rubs his eyes. "Thanks for letting me crash."

"Uh huh." Yuri nods, but his lips curl into something of a grimace. "Didn't give me much choice there, asshole."

Otabek's head droops again and he anchors it in place by shoving the napkins and sugar aside for his elbows to fit on the tiny table so he can lean his face on his hands. "Sorry."

"You wanna come flirt with Katsuki later?" Yuri plays with the tuft at the end of his braided hair. Once again, _convenience_. "It drives Viktor crazy. It's amazing."

"I'm in," Otabek promises. He parts his fingers to peer at Yuri from between them. "Boyfriend or friend with benefits?"

Yuri puts the end of his braid between his lips in thought and looks at his phone out of habit. Still being tagged on Twitter and Insta for the previous night, but it's not why. He keeps expecting a different kind of notification.

He spits out his braid. "Neither," he says and catches Otabek scowling. "I don't eat my hair," he adds.

"Why neither?" Otabek lowers his hands and just uses them to prop his head up instead of covering his face. "I'd have either. If I had the time."

"Listen, you miserable piece of toast," Yuri grunts, not used to having his answer questioned. "I already have someone tragic I gotta babysit. Like I need more?"

Otabek seems satisfied with that and when their teas arrive, in cups with cat ears that make drinking from them almost impossible, he finally sends Yuri a new game invite. For the rest of that slice of stolen time they sit quietly, just playing.

#

"Why do you even bother keeping this private?" Yuri asks after scrolling through the latest on Otabek's Insta. More blurry photos. At least they're fucking horizontal, right? "It's not like anyone would understand you any more after seeing this shit." He holds up his phone with a picture of their recent cat-shaped teacups.

"He's right, I don't have any idea what that is. You remain a complete mystery," Leo says after squinting at the picture for a while. His hair's tied back too, but not as elaborately as Yuri's. And not _braided_.

Otabek blanks them both and just keeps staring out the window. The three of them are sitting in an alcove in one of the stairwells at the rink, caught between warm-ups, practise and actually competing. Skates on, guards on, still in sweats. There's an issue with the ice and everything's on hold.

"You're already following him so your opinion's invalid." Yuri snatches his phone back when Otabek refuses to give it any attention.

Leo looks at Otabek, too, but mostly for support. Or maybe hoping he'd control Yuri in some way. Hah. Good fucking luck getting Otabek to control anything. He's either disinterested or incapable as far as Yuri's concerned.

"I just meant it's a really bad picture," Leo defends himself. "Sorry, Otabek."

"Forget it," Yuri mutters. He could probably get Otabek's password easily and just change the privacy settings himself, but he's not that much of an asshole.

"None taken," Otabek replies with a slight delay, and not even in the right format, out of sync with his reality. "It's a teacup," he adds. He's leaning his head on the window, eyes almost closed. At least he's slept the last few nights. In Yuri's hotel room. In his bed.

"What teacup?" Leo turns to Yuri again, making a helpless face.

"Dunno," Yuri shrugs, busy checking back on the whole punching Otabek in the mouth thing. There's still a little bruise on Otabek's upper lip, which Yuri has poked while Otabek's been asleep.

"Geez," Leo says, sounding very American. "He's not sleeping, right?" He nudges Yuri.

"What do I know," Yuri mutters, not listening. He’s not going to tell Leo anything because then he’d have to explain _why_ and _how_ he knows.

"A couple of years ago he stopped sleeping for months," Leo continues, kicking at the edge of a stair with his skate to adjust the guard. "Really grim stuff. Remember? Otabek? We were worried."

"I remember," Otabek replies, this time with an actual answer and in a timely manner. "It's not so bad this time."

Yuri scowls hearing that. It was worse before? He didn't know Otabek back then, so why is he worried? And as if it isn't bad enough now. Speaks something to Otabek's determination and skill to be able to train and compete and qualify if he can do it virtually sleepless.

"It was pretty crazy." Leo kicks his other foot against the stair, too, then sits on the top of the stairs leading down to redo his laces. Yuri glares at him from the bottom of the ascending set of stairs. "So..."

"We're not fucking, don't make that noise," Otabek says flatly. "No one cheated on anyone, I didn't get his girlfriend pregnant, I didn't get _him_ pregnant, Yura's just a little bit intense, okay? Yeah, you can quote me."

It's all absolutely factual and true, but twists Yuri up all the same. He gets up and shoves his phone in his team jacket pocket and clatters down the stairs in his skates.

"Uhh..." he hears Leo's uncomfortable exhalation. "Um, okay. You don't sound like it's better this time around."

If Otabek makes a reply to that Yuri's already out of earshot. All true, but all _private_. Whether there's fucking is for them to know, no one else. And Leo's a fucking gossip, it's going to be everywhere soon enough. A flat-out denial of anything between them, straight from the mouth of the gift horse.

Which, again, is just the truth.

#

Katsuki is no match for Yuri's determined kick that makes the door slip out of his grasp and fly open, crashing against the set of drawers standing behind the door. Katsuki's nerves are also no match for Yuri's stare as they lock eyes and Yuri advances into the room step by step, then slams the door shut.

"Come right in," Katsuki says as Yuri walks past him and towards the minibar he’s spotted. Looks like Viktor's paying for the room.

After selecting the most expensive miniature bottle of water Yuri looks around the rest of the room. Yep. Definitely nicer than his. Then he takes out his phone and flops on the bed.

"Well..." Katsuki hedges, still standing by the door. "What brings you here? Viktor will be right back."

If he thinks Yuri can be scared away by name-dropping Viktor, Katsuki's woefully mistaken. Yuri lies back on the bed, legs over the edge, looking at his phone. He’s got every right to do this since these two chucklefucks have taken over his rink at home.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Katsuki tries and sits timidly on the very edge of the bed. "Your short program beat mine so that can't be it."

That isn't it. And besides, does there need to be something? Yuri glares at Katsuki past his phone and takes a drink from the bottle of water, spilling most of it across his chin.

"Um," Katsuki says, watching the display.

Yuri has another drink, but this time it sends him sitting up with a coughing fit. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve when he recovers, having spit most of the water across the floor. "Otabek keeps sleeping in my bed," he says hoarsely.

Katsuki goes tense and weird, looking at him with stricken eyes. "I don't think he'll listen to me if I tell him to leave."

Yuri snorts. "Thanks, I can kick him out just fine if I need to."

"Ah. So..." It's the same word with the same inflection Leo had used.

"So? So what?" Yuri snaps.

"So why are you telling me?" Katsuki holds all his tension in his shoulders as if he wants to pull his head into his body, or to disappear completely.

"Because you asked! Dumbass."

"But..." Katsuki cringes. "Don't you like him?"

"Do I fuck!" Yuri erupts off the bed, dropping the bottle of water. It's cap is too loose and spins open only to let the rest of the water splash on the floor.

The scene breaks with the door opening and framing Viktor in his long coat. His eyes travel across the room, from the tense Katsuki to the even more tense Yuri and then the water on the floor. He steps in and closes the door.

"Yurio," he starts. "Your recent habit of coming into other people's houses and making a mess is not appreciated."

Yuri's not as dumb as everyone else around him so he's perfectly aware of what Viktor is saying. He hasn't literally made a mess in anyone's house, but it means he can't look for inspiration here. He kicks the bottle of water spitefully, sending it spiralling across the floor and under a table.

Viktor swings around to open the door again. "Get out!" he commands and points. Yuri takes one glance at the frozen Katsuki, then runs out.

#

This time the door Yuri kicks open belongs to his hotel room. "Beka!"

Except there's no one there. Not like the three previous nights with Otabek sleeping in every conceivable position on, across and in Yuri's bed, barely leaving Yuri a space to get in. They'd slept head to feet, Yuri taking great pleasure in splaying his bare feet over Otabek's face while he was out. He'd washed them first, so it was okay.

His phone's empty. Not actually empty, but nearing 5% battery power and there's no new game invites. He closes his hand over his phone really hard, but then sends the invite himself. And what's Otabek got to be mad about?

"Fuck! OkAY!" Yuri lets the room know. "Left or right?" he mutters as he types the question to Otabek. He feels it again, like during his short program, as though his limbs are metres longer than they used to be, dangling and bending at odd angles as he tries to pull everything back to make it work like before. Make _himself_ work like before.

The dumb fuck only messages back a question mark. After five minutes. So Yuri does what anyone sane would do and screams at his phone, screams at the stupid message, until his throat is dry. Then he types an entirely calm reply.

"Side of the bed?"

And he gets a Snapchat reply, a fabulously horrible selfie of a thumbs-up with the text _left_ pasted over it.

Of course. It's Yuri's preferred side, too. "If that's your final answer you can go to your own room and sleep on the left side of your own bed."

The next one is a slightly less enthusiastic and even more out-of-focus picture of a thumbs-up. It says _right_ this time.

Yuri decides to get in a workout.

He's in the middle of breaking his plank record when Otabek gets in—he has a key now?—and neatly tucks himself on the right side of the bed. When he asks Yuri to talk to him Yuri sings the Russian national anthem several times over, improvising when he can't remember the verses. Otabek falls asleep anyway.

#

They get to skate together again. _Practise_ , whatever. Well, they practise apart, but they get to be on the same ice, get to warm up and cool down together. Sweaty Otabek is _repugnant_ —thanks for the word—but he looks so much better now, after sleeping several nights in a row. Yuri congratulates himself on being an amazing friend as they circle lazily around each other. Close, but not touching, so they can speak with the illusion of privacy.

Well, speak is a grandiose term for asking crude questions of each other.

"What's worse? Public toilets or restaurants that _smell_ like public toilets?" Otabek asks. Practising suits him, Yuri decides now, watching. Or maybe it’s the sleep. He gets _soft_ at the edges. At least no one else on the ice speaks Russian so their conversations aren’t overheard.

As it is, Yuri has enough objections. "You half-eaten cereal bar," he mutters. "Both are disgusting. Okay. Restaurants that smell."

"Public toilets," Otabek says almost at the same time.

"The inside of your head must be a mess," Yuri says after, maybe there's a little bit of amazement in his voice, because _fuck_. "Look, restaurants aren't supposed to smell like that so it's way worse."

"Sure." Otabek nods, but doesn't change his answer. The lightning at the rink does no one favours. It's not the same when there's a performance, when the actual, good mood lights come on. Otabek looks like shit and Yuri knows of that's true then the converse must also be true and the lights have washed him out to a pale untoasted bagel.

The lights flash, their sign to stop dawdling and get off the ice for the resurfacing and the next group. It's easier than shouting.

"Can I use your shampoo again?" Otabek asks on the way to the edge of the ice.

"Jesus fucking Christ, do you just use sand or something when you're in your natural state?" Yuri sighs.

"Do you have an extra toothbrush, too?"

Yuri snaps around at the last minute before stepping off the ice to shove at Otabek when he hears that bullshit. Otabek absorbs the impact with a slight bracing of his feet as he brakes to not collide with Yuri.

Stripping down to shower Yuri realises he's left two bruises on Otabek so far. The one on his mouth—nice—and another on his ribs with his elbow. He's a little bit proud, and even more so when Katsuki walks by in a towel and he whistles and Otabek joins in. Katsuki jumps, blushes, and gives them a reproachful look. He isn’t as embarrassed as he would if Viktor was there, but it’s enough.

Yuri snorts and elbows Otabek again, this time just to get his attention. "Dick or ass?" he asks, riding the high.

"Well," Otabek starts and tilts his head towards Yuri. "You're a bit of a dick and a bit of an ass, so both, I guess?"

"You guys are weird," Leo says from the other side of Otabek even though he doesn't understand them. Maybe the intonation of their words lets him hear the topic without understanding it. "Just weird. And kinda gross."

Yuri snorts at both of them and shoves his hand past Otabek to let Leo see his middle finger up close. "Beka, what a fucking cop-out," he spits at the same time.

"If you'd asked tits or ass I could've said ass," Otabek rebukes him quietly as Leo retreats back to drying his feet. "Because whatever you are, you're not a tit."

Yuri elbows him again and leaves for the showers.

#

A week later, after a podium finish at NHK, but not the gold, Yuri sends Otabek the picture he'd taken of them on their last night, sharing the bed. Otabek had been asleep and Yuri had placed his foot over his face, pressing the ball of his foot against Otabek's mouth.

He leaves it and goes through ballet practice, the thought of Otabek seeing the picture tingling at the back of his mind and in the pit of his stomach. Funny, but it's the same feeling he gets from winning a game of _Words_ , just longer-lasting.

"Left foot front, glissade, assemblé, assemblé, entrechat royale into fifth position," Lilia tells her class. "And then you go sideways to the right, sideways to the left, and it continues left from there. Glissade, assemblé, assemblé, pied changement, one sissonne tombe to the side, to other side. Did we get it? Ready, please."

He feels calm and relaxed—and sweaty and sore—after practice and ready with half a dozen words he's thought of to fit on their current _Words_ board. He also gets to view Otabek's reply to his picture, which is a snap, taken—as far as Yuri can tell—in a pitch black room. There's a shape in it, sort of, but really nothing definitive. It just says "thx".

Just for that Yuri makes sure to win their game by the end of the day. He doesn't, but he tries really, really hard.

#

"How much masturbation is too much masturbation?"

"Well, when'd you last..?" Otabek, although only vaguely visible in the eternal bad lighting of whatever shithole he lives in, makes a gesture that can't be mistaken, grasping an imaginary dick and rattling his hand. "Or is that a hypothetical?"

"It is. And yesterday," Yuri answers promptly. He's 16. He doesn't need a reason to do it. And he doesn't have a reason to hide it from Otabek. It's not _interesting_. "What, you wanna talk technique?"

"Well, if you have any pointers..." Otabek trails off, but only to pull on a band T-shirt. Yuri doesn't recognise the band.

"You're older!" Yuri protests, rolling onto his back on the bed and holding up his phone. Otabek's is propped up against something, showing him getting dressed. "You should have the know-how already."

"I manage. Did just fine earlier today," Otabek says and grabs his leather jacket and something that looks suspiciously like a croissant. It's what Yuri zooms on.

" _Carbs_ ," he says loudly, envious. He eats, he eats a lot, he’s still growing and he’s got muscle mass to preserve, but it's all carefully curated. Nothing as easy as croissants and energy drinks. And he doesn't know which is harder to shake from his imagination, the croissant or the jerking off.

"Bye, Yuri," Otabek says through a mouthful of the illicit treat. "Go to sleep."

"Go fuck yourself," Yuri replies on rote memory, although apparently Otabek has already done it.

#

Little by little the social mediasphere forgets about Yuri Plisetsky flying at Otabek Altin and bitchslapping him in Sapporo in November. Maybe it's because they almost at the GPF and there's more interesting things to report. Maybe it's because Leo _had_ quoted Otabek in a tweet. During the interval from competitions Yuri learns a lot of new words.

He also talks Otabek down from one sleepless week, although to say they _talk_ is misleading. Yuri runs his mouth and Otabek tries to get comfortable. A few times—and Yuri’s not sure thanks to Otabek’s aversion to light—he suspects Otabek is getting off while listening to him. He doesn’t bring it up, uncharacteristically, because Otabek almost always goes right to sleep after and the next time Yuri thinks it can’t have happened.

That's the sum of all their communication outside _Words_ until the GPF hits. Training's more intense at this stage, and there's so much of it. Yuri can barely stay on his feet when he gets home every day. Sometimes he gets off when watching Otabek sleep.

That's okay. That's normal. He's fine.

He's frustrated.

So he messages Otabek. "Fuck you and fuck the dick you rode in on."

In return he gets the picture of his foot pressed against Otabek's face. "Can't wait," the caption says. And fuck if Yuri isn't looking forward to that again, too.

#

"A year ago I thought you were cool."

"I'm not?"

"You're a fucking disaster, Beka!" Despite the protest Yuri flings his door wide open for Otabek to come in. He has luggage this time, but he looks like shit warmed over. In a malfunctioning microwave. "What is _wrong_ with you!"

The bruises have faded and Yuri feels the loss at a deep, gut-wrenching level. Otabek moves his mouth around. "Sometimes I do feel like an earthquake," he says.

"What the fuck? What the fuck, Beka? What the fuck does that even mean, you used-up banana peel?" Yuri goes a bit shrill, realises it, and takes a breath. Why is he out of breath? He doesn't have enough words or insults or time to describe in detail just how much Otabek annoys him. Not with that leather jacket. Not without the bruised mouth.

"Like a disaster," Otabek translates as he tosses his bag on the bed they'll share. "Sometimes I do feel like a disaster."

Yuri grabs him by the lapel of his coat, pulls on it, and opens his mouth to be scathing. Something. "Only _sometimes_?" he hisses, pent-up energy and nerves shooting out through his lips.

"Wanna go out for a frozen yoghurt?" Otabek asks. He's even slept, Yuri can tell. The dark smudges under his eyes are under control.

"In December? Are you-" Yuri snarls, but rethinks immediately. "Okay, yes." They're in Marseille, literally on the Mediterranean Sea. And Yuri is Russian, for fuck's sake. Maybe he's not been to Siberia, but he's got tiger blood in his veins, he can deal with the cold of a frozen treat in the lame-ass not-even-really-winter scenario of Southern fucking France.

Arrival days are always a mess. The hotel lobby is packed, but all it does is provide cover for them as they leave. The only one to catch them is JJ, and only with that weird upward nod to greet Otabek. Yuri is already scowling—it's the fucking undercut and the black hair and the ass—when he looks at Otabek, now behind JJ, making crude gestures with a blank face. So, yes, neither of them has forgotten _JJ or Chris_?

"Who pissed in your cereal, Plisetsky?" JJ asks when Yuri makes a face at him in passing, all thanks to Otabek.

"You, obviously," Yuri answers. Calm, actually, even with Otabek doing a pretty bad impression of giving a blowjob right behind him. When they're out he smacks Otabek on the arm and when that isn't enough he punches him in the shoulder, too. "What the fuck was that?"

Otabek mimes JJ's horrible finger guns at him and Yuri goes to punch him again, only to have Otabek dodge and then run down the street. Yuri screeches after him, releasing all the pent-up energy of travel and cramped spaces and waiting to see if Otabek was going to arrive in one piece.

And he's a sloppy eater, too. Yuri knows this, has known this, has seen it, and is seeing it again. Otabek slurping on the plastic spoon, extracting every bit of artificial vanilla flavour—vanilla, of course, with fucking sprinkles, because _of course_ —from it.

"You calamitous slob. You strawberry fucking _sundae_ ," Yuri mutters around his own spoon. Strawberry. He loves the ridiculous essence of strawberry taste. It's not like real strawberries at all, but it's familiar and unreal all at the same time.

"Calamitous," Otabek says around the spoon. "You like strawberry."

"I don't," Yuri mutters.

"Well, you got strawberry yoghurt," Otabek points out, taking the spoon out of his mouth and licking at it. "With freeze-dried strawberries on top."

"Well, fuck you," Yuri mocks.

Otabek delivers another melty spoonful into his mouth and sucks on the spoon again. "This is why you don't have friends," he says.

Yuri grabs Otabek's wrist, the hand that's holding the flimsy paper cup of yoghurt, which is melting over the edge and over Otabek's fingers. "And this is why you don't have friends!" he responds. "You're disgusting!"

"Thanks," Otabek says. It's flat and slurred around the goddamn spoon, but then he uses his free hand to grasp Yuri's opposite wrist, linking them together. "Takes one to know one." And Yuri finds his strawberry treat is spilling across his own fingers, just like Otabek.

And then Otabek pulls Yuri's hand up and licks the melty mess off Yuri's fingers like the unapologetic and disgusting piece of shit he is.

#

In retrospect.

In retrospect trying to punch Otabek again hadn't been the best decision. Or throwing his yoghurt at him, only to have it hit the window of a café. In retrospect, Yuri should have remembered they were in public again. But then, so should've Otabek.

Arrival day is always packed. With press. They're in the same exact position they were in Sapporo before they even get back to the room. It's just the room now, because even if it's Yuri's hard-won QoL-upgrade from having to share with Georgi, he's not sleeping there alone. So it's not just his room.

And Yuri is busy flooding Otabek's inbox with minion memes because this time it's his fault they're trending on Twitter and not because their programs are amazing because they haven't had the chance to perform yet. But here they are, r/YurisAngels going crazy and Otabek obediently looking at every meme Yuri sends. Even snorting at some.

"Tattoos or piercings?" Otabek asks when Yuri's finally tired of his revenge.

"Whichever hurts less," Yuri mutters. He's lying down on the bed, face in a pillow.

"I have a tattoo of you," Otabek continues. He's on the opposite end of the bed, sitting up and still thumbing through Yuri's meme flood.

"Do you fuck," Yuri mumbles. He'd have seen it by now. _Fans_ would’ve seen it by now.

"No, I do," Otabek insists. "Look." He shifts and Yuri pushes his head up, only to see three dots tattooed on the inside of Otabek's forearm. He stares. Touches the dots.

"Beka," he says. "You are the dumbest person I know and I know some dumb fucking people."

Otabek snorts and flops on his stomach next to Yuri. "Okay, so it's not an exact likeness." Yuri notices a lone blue sprinkle caught in Otabek's hair. "I just like seeing the three dots when you message me. So it's you but, like, in code."

"So literally no one else messages you," is what Yuri takes away from it. That and he gets to swipe his thumb over the ever-so-slightly raised dots on Otabek's skin.

"They just don't look the same," Otabek explains.

In the silence that's filled with the soft rasp of Yuri moving his finger on Otabek and the scuff of their clothes, Yuri comes up with a great question. "When did you get this?"

"My birthday," Otabek replies, leaning in to sniff at Yuri’s hair.

Yuri flips his _braid_ over his other shoulder, away from Otabek. "You were drunk," he deduces. Because that’s what happens in celebrations, as far as he knows. Everyone gets shitfaced.

"No," Otabek says and reaches over to grasp Yuri’s hair, running the plait between his fingers. He brings it back to his nose and sniffs again. "Mm," he hums afterwards, falling onto his side on the bed, eyes closed, like some big cat himself. Shameless or just uncaring, that's something Yuri hasn't yet figured out.

#

It's all lies on the ice. The lie of emotion and perfection and _cool_. It hits Yuri again, straight in the face, when he sees Otabek perform, sleek in his outfit, not bundled up in sweats. It's so stupid. The lie being that he isn't a complete fucking mess, and it's such a good lie, too. Almost believable.

The audience always swallows the lies because they don’t know better. Not even all skaters know better. Katsuki even claps for Otabek, delighted in the performance. And when Otabek lands a flawless quad flip Yuri knows he’s caught up in the lie, too. It's becoming easier to land quads in general, but the flawlessness of Otabek’s version is far from easy. And Yuri is three dots on a screen, on skin, trying to say everything at once, vibrating with the effort of actually communicating something.

It's the GPF, another year in the making, but it doesn't escape Yuri's notice or memory that it's been a _year_. A year grating around the edges, practise, competitions, utterly useless selfies from Otabek, a lot of questions answered and, somehow, all devoid of any actual information.

And it's such _bullshit_. Otabek's short program. It's the most blatant lie Yuri's ever seen. Who is this put-together asshole having an emotion on the ice? Is this the one others see because Otabek's _atrocious_ _—_ thanks—Instagram is private? Because when he doesn't sleep there's no one to see it now except Yuri.

Short program scores are always inscrutable. Exciting, but ultimately meaningless. The free skate can change so much. Not everything, but a lot.

"You're like a bad powerpoint presentation," Yuri tells Otabek in the locker room, in English because he wants others to hear it. JJ snorts next to them and Otabek turns to Yuri, pretending to give a blowjob again. Yuri knows he's never going to live it down now and he's only 16. It’s going to be a long time.

The locker room is different after a competition skate. Quieter at this stage, anyway. "You're like a cat," Otabek starts, "that doesn't know how to hunt."

JJ snorts again. Yuri throws a skate guard at him, which Otabek deflects to clatter uselessly on the floor. Then Yuri receives a faceful of Otabek's tights.

"You smell like a litter box," he growls, peeling them off, still damp. Katsuki's already made his exit. JJ is now watching them with his mouth in a confused and somewhat disgusted crumple. Some of it ends on social media as pictures via Phichit in the corner of the room.

But Otabek's kind of bruised and taped up and indulgent and _epicurean_ _—_ thanks—and an absolute spoon in a drawer full of knives. Yuri can't believe it's been a year and this is his prize at the end of it, even before the podium.

#

In the hotel room, when their duties are done, Otabek sits in the middle of his gear, unpacked. He's unearthed empty water bottles and cans of Monster from his bag, headphones with the most knotted cord Yuri has ever seen and a half-used bar of soap without any wrapper or cover. Yuri stands above him, watching, one hand pressed over his mouth.

"So you don't have your charger?" Yuri lets his hand drop.

"No," Otabek replies and looks around the collision site he's created. "I suppose you're still using an iPhone."

"Everyone uses an iPhone!" Yuri snaps.

"I can buy a new charger."

Yuri kicks an empty plastic bottle out of the way and crashes down on his knees, jarring him up to his teeth. "Do you even know where your wallet is? Your passport? How'd you get into the country? How are you alive? How are you _alive_?" He shakes Otabek by his shoulders. "You're so useless. Absolute trash. I don't fucking understand how you're in the running for gold again."

Otabek is relaxed under his grip, flopping as he's shaken. His face is blank, not carefully blank, not a resting bitch face, not holding back anything, just blank as though there's no thought in his head.

"Yura. Yura," he sighs, not resisting. "Coach has my passport. Probably my wallet, too."

"You peach fuzz ding-dong," Yuri whispers and gives him a limp slap on the cheek. Otabek just lets his head tilt, smiling through it.

"You like nectarines," he says. "So I know you're insulting me."

"Well, you deserve it." Yuri grimaces and gets up again. His gear's fucking pristine compared to the sewage spill of Otabek's and it's easy enough to find his charger and plug his phone in. He does it on purpose, right next to Otabek because there's an outlet and because he can shove Otabek with his bare foot.

He does it again when they're bed, head to feet, shoves and kicks, both smelling like rubbing alcohol and tiger balsam. To clean the popped blisters and to cool the overworked muscles.

"Cooked alive or eaten alive?" There's music that Otabek sets his question to, coming from his headphones that he half-wears, volume so loud even Yuri can hear it on the other end of the bed. _You spin me round._

"What's the cooking method?" Yuri asks. It's kind of a funny question so he doesn't mind.

"Spitroasting."

Yuri shifts down the headboard—because of course he gets the proper end of the bed, it's _his_ room—and his foot creeps up on Otabek's chin on the other side. "Are you fuck," he starts and Otabek licks his toes. "Listen," he starts again and Otabek's tongue rolls between his toes.

"Yeah?" Otabek says then, mumbling the word into Yuri's foot.

Yuri doesn't remember what he was talking about. "How's it taste?" he results to asking. Even if Otabek wasn't carefully holding Yuri's ankle, he wouldn't have pulled away.

"Not too bad. Kind of medicinal," Otabek says, licking again, along the arch of Yuri's foot, the pad under his big toe, between the big toe and the next one.

"Should've guessed you'd be into shit like this," Yuri grunts, curling his toes. It tickles all the way to his dick, and even higher, in his chest.

Otabek sets his teeth against Yuri's toes for a moment, then sucks on his middle toes, slurping, just like with the plastic spoon. And with the same amount of unabashed eye-contact. Yuri's half-risen, elbows bracing him against the mattress and mouth open, staring, swallowing on a dry throat, every little suckle tugging at his groin.

"Phichit," Otabek says between licks. "Or Seung-gil?"

Yuri tilts his head back and flexes his foot, just like at barre practice, pressing it against Otabek's cheek. "Seung-gil," he says. It's the eyes. If this is what Otabek wants to talk about, then sure.

"Phichit," Otabek replies and Yuri snorts, his whole upper body spasming with it, and again when Otabek sinks his teeth on the soft, fleshy part of his instep, narrowly avoiding the kinesio tape that comes up his ankle and along his calf. Otabek's fingers do follow it, smoothing its edges where they're coming off.

Yuri lets his elbows slide out from under him and uses one of his arms as a pillow instead, the other he straightens down his side, hand over his hip and then over his lap. He can just barely see Otabek at the other end, behind his foot.

"Blisters or bruises?" he asks towards the ceiling, flexing his toes again to catch them against Otabek's face.

"Bruises," Otabek says and sits up with Yuri's foot falling onto his shoulder. His headphones hang around his neck, along with a loop of the cord, which looks like it might strangle him. There's still music coming from them, words. _Like a record, baby._

Yuri kind of chortles at the sight, an unattractive snort that takes him by surprise because he's sure that without him Otabek would probably have already died. He sits up, too, doesn't move his leg off Otabek's shoulder because that's not even a stretch, although it slides down into the crook of Otabek's arm anyway as he untangles the cord.

"I think bruises, too," he says and Otabek kisses him, just as sloppy as the toe-sucking had been, and yeah, it does taste kind of medicinal. The remnants of his foot aftercare. "Ew," he says then, remembering just that. He pulls away and licks his lips, looking at Otabek. "You absolute immersion blender."

Otabek snorts, too. His lips are shiny, as is his chin, as though he's drooled. Smeared his spit down his face while licking Yuri's foot.

"I'm not gonna lick yours," Yuri declares and reaches over to grasp Otabek's ankle. There’s still dry blood crusted in the crevice of one of Otabek’s toe nails.

"Yet," Otabek says. And he's so unashamed again, not really smiling, but relaxed, eyes dark and Yuri thinks it's such a fucking pity he can never take a proper selfie.

"Fucking n-" Yuri starts but doesn't get to finish because Otabek pushes his thumb between Yuri's teeth, then swipes it against his tongue and pulls it out, leading to a horrifying slurping sound. And leaves Yuri staring. Just like the spoon in Otabek's mouth.

"Fingers okay?" Otabek asks, and stops Yuri from replying by pressing his thumb against his lips again. It goes in with a soft pop as Yuri inhales through his mouth and then presses his tongue against the digit.

Then Yuri pulls his foot up, biting down onto Otabek's finger, and plants his foot on his face, pushing him down. He doesn't draw blood with his teeth, just leaves an imprint.

"I don't want to be your boyfriend," he snarls. "We're in a competition!"

"I didn't ask you to be." Otabek's voice is muffled by the foot over his face. He doesn't struggle against it, but encircles Yuri's ankle with his fingers. "I'd rather have the gold than you, anyway," he says and then licks the sole of Yuri's foot, sending a spike of wet excitement up Yuri's spine.

Yuri, still sitting up, tries to kick him, but not too hard, and Otabek's grasp on his ankle stops him. "You said you wanted a boyfriend or something!"

The blankets have been rustled aside by them, but it's not like Otabek to hide behind something like that even if that wasn't the case. He's laid out along and under Yuri's leg, hard in his underwear.

"Want, yes. Can't have," Otabek mumbles.

Yuri shifts his foot to peer at Otabek's face. "Are you finally becoming self-aware, you fucking undrunk cup of coffee? I've known sponges with more intelligence than you."

Otabek tightens his hand around Yuri's ankle, laughing into his instep. "I'm too busy for a boyfriend. Too _tragic_." He slides his other hand into his underwear, inhaling shakily. "But I'm getting off. You wanna watch?"

"No," Yuri says and his dick says definitely yes. He grunts and slams himself back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. He's part of this now, whether he wants it or not. He's right there, pressed into Otabek's side, even if it's the lower side with the feet, and he can feel Otabek's rhythmic motions. He sighs shoves his hand into his own underwear, following along to the beat of Otabek's hand and the one from his headphones.

_All I know is that to me you look like you're lots of fun._

#

There's a trickle of blood down the side of Otabek's face, under his ear. There's a trickle of toothpaste down the side of his jaw from where he's brushing his teeth, eyes closed, hips canted forward. He's still in just his underwear, the thumb of his free hand hooked into the waistband.

The moment ends up in the safety of Yuri's SD card.

His bare feet make a sound on the tiles of the bathroom and Otabek opens one eye, but doesn't really move otherwise. Yuri swipes up the blood with a sigh and smears it over Otabek's upper lip, giving him a stupid moustache.

"Who the fuck gave you a razor?" he mumbles and eyes Otabek in the uncomfortable yellow light from above the sink. Why do hotels always have such crap lighting in the bathroom?

Otabek takes the toothbrush out of his mouth and wipes his hand across his lips, coming back with toothpaste and blood. He stares and Yuri stares at another thing.

"That's my fucking toothbrush!" he erupts and snatches the used and messy thing out of Otabek's hand, then doesn't know what to do with it, dripping water and foam over his knuckles. "Beka!"

Otabek spits into the sink. "Sorry," he says.

Yuri's furious scream reverberates in the small, ceramic room. And then it's eaten by the silence of a spearmint kiss and Yuri realises Otabek's used his toothpaste, too.

#

"You've made him different."

"As in he's still alive and breathing?" Yuri snaps back at JJ, both waiting for their turn on the ice while Otabek skates. Jesus fucking Christ, it boggled the mind to think that Otabek had survived up to now without Yuri.

JJ laughs sharply. Amused, but not happy. "He's not a helpless puppy. He can take care of himself."

" _Please_ ," Yuri rolls his eyes.

"But he is different."

Which one is real? The one on the ice or the one in the video chats.

"Better," JJ adds, carefully, almost against his will, as if suspicious.

Yuri curses him up and down the hallway, in Russian and in English. This is better? This is the good Otabek? How bad was it before? But he is. He is. And Yuri curses louder.

#

The podium is crowded. JJ to one side, Otabek to the other and Yuri between them, holding up his second GPF gold. In some strange twist of scoring Katsuki had fallen off and Yuri is stuck with two people he currently hates, although for wildly different reasons.

Otabek is like some actually functional version of himself when he skates and when he's scored and medalled and interviewed. Like a sucked-in stomach, keeping the mess out of sight. And he's got everyone convinced. Yuri wants the one bleeding at the edges, punched and black-eyed and sleepless and helpless and useless.

#

For the New Year, when all is said and done, Yuri receives an invitation from Viktor and Katsuki. He goes to their party because it's better than nothing, but he waits for the Happy New Year message three hours too early. It arrives with an attachment and a game invite.

The attachment is a video compilation titled _Worst Days Supercut_ and it's exactly what the name promises. Every falter, stumble, fail, fall and misfire from Otabek's training season. It is the most beautiful thing Yuri has ever seen because this is the Otabek he knows, the one who's dumb and frayed and sweaty.

He watches it and doesn't even mind that Katsuki glances over his shoulder.

"Is that Otabek?" he says. "He's usually so put together."

Yuri laughs himself into the next year.

**Author's Note:**

> Victory (победа) is only two letters from trouble (беда).
> 
> I'd love to write an alternate universe thing about them, but it's so hard to pick a topic.


End file.
